


the plant that never blooms

by cendal



Category: IM5 (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-24
Updated: 2013-07-24
Packaged: 2017-12-21 04:54:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/896033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cendal/pseuds/cendal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is what never happens.</p><p>(Or: a romance from the cracks of nothing and a tragedy in the possibilities.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	the plant that never blooms

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is not as serious or as cool as the summary implies, and i am so, so sorry for writing this

This is what never happens:

You're leaning against Cole’s back, taking selfies while he plays Animal Crossing: New Leaf. A new challenge you have set up for yourself is taking a picture where it doesn't look like he’s behind you. It isn't working, but using a ton of filters is pretty fun, so you guess it's okay.

"I think my citizens are hitting on me," he says conversationally.

You delete a photo. "I'd hit on you too if you were  _my_  mayor."

He nudges you with his elbow. It barely hits your waist. "I'll be your mayor any day, baby."

"Ooh, mister mayor, ooh." You lay the back of your hand against your forehead in a fair approximation of a swooning maiden for good measure, although he can't see it. He can definitely feel you tilting more toward him, though, considering he is not a wall and has to lean forward to compensate for it.

"Meanwhile, in a twenty-mile radius of this event: shirts ripping! Directioners turning into Fivers!" he continues the reference in what could be considered a radio voice, if radio voices sounded like they were trying to imitate Morgan Freeman.

You  _hmm_. "Do you think Directioners really would become Fivers if we were more homoerotic?"

"Are you trying to tell me something?" he asks.

"Wh—no!" A beat, then: "Yes? Maybe?"

Cole pushes against you until his spine is no longer curved with your weight. "I don't think I approve," he says. "Better not mention it the next time we see Eben."

You snort—or try to, anyway. All you really manage is a puff of air. "Oh, yeah, that'd go over well. 'Hey, Eben, do you think we should try to appeal to slash fans?' 'Dalton, have you taken any drugs recently? Do I need to call your parents?' 'No, Eben, I would just like to bromance everything up.'"

"More like take the b out of bromance," Cole remarks, a little choked, as if he's trying not to laugh.

"Just for you," you assure him.

He does laugh then, mostly breathless and maybe a little embarrassed. "Thanks."

It feels like you should say something, make something fit in place; but the moment passes while you grope for words, and he says, "Do you wanna play Left 4 Dead?"

  

  

This is what never happens:

You make it to your bedroom with a can of Coke in your hand before you give in to the urge to hear his voice. You call him and stare at your wall for the three-and-a-half rings it takes for him to pick up.

"What," he manages to say somewhat coherently, sleep-scratchy.

It makes you feel guilty. "Shit, did I just wake you up?"

He makes a noise that has far too many g's in it. "Yeah, 's cool. Sup?"

"We did a UStream without you," you tell him, since that is the truth and also easier to say than "I missed you."

"I missed a UStream?" he asks, clearer than before and two hundred percent more aghast.

"Yeah. 'S cool, though, we mentioned you more than enough times to make up for it."

"Which means you mentioned me like twice," he says flatly. The effect is somewhat ruined by his voice cracking at the end.

Because you are an amazing friend, you don't comment on it. "No, dude, I'm pretty sure that altogether we mentioned you like ten times."

"Yeah?" he says suspiciously. "What'd you say?"

This is the question you hadn't known you'd been waiting for. "That you re-enact book scenes with sock puppets and that you wear clothes to hide your sasquatchity, among other things."

There is a long silence. You take a sip of your soda. He is presumably speechless.

Finally, he says, disbelieving, "You didn't."

"We did," you confirm, and grin when he groans. "If it helps, I think people already assumed that stuff about you."

"Why would that help?"

"Why  _wouldn't_  it help?"

"At least tell me the other stuff you said about me was normal," he pleads.

You make a considering noise. "Yeah, I guess. Dana told everyone about that one time the two of you and Will almost broke a trampoline. Gabe said something about how you hit on dog owners last time you guys hung out in public. We were asked to share some weird stories about you, so."

"Remind me to tweet something about this later," he says, then yawns. "You got anything else to say, or can I go back to sleep?"

"Are you going to sleep all day?" you ask, amused.

"Mm, yeah, pretty much."

"Way to be lazy. But, uh, it was pretty weird to hang out with everyone without you, so don't sleep forever next time we get a day off, alright?"

He  _hmm_ s but doesn't say anything more than, "Can't make any promises, but I think I can do that. See you tomorrow, Dalton."

The call ends, just like that, and you frown at your Coke and try not to feel so many things.

  

  

This is what never happens:

Cole has his head in your lap, taking a nap, and you card your fingers through his hair while you watch TV. It's very domestic, and you kind of love him a little for it.

He wakes up a quarter of the way through the second episode of Criminal Minds and shifts so that his cheek is no longer pressed against your thigh, dislodging your hand. The red imprint left on his face does little to subtract from how adorable he looks when his eyes are still heavy with sleep, and a wave of fondness washes over you. "Nice nap?" you ask.

"Yeah," he replies thickly. He clears his throat before speaking again. "How long was I out?"

You glance at the TV. "Little over an hour?"

He nods thoughtfully, or what would be thoughtfully if it didn't look stilted and sideways from still being on your lap. "I should go home soon," he notes, in the lazy way people mention things they should be doing but don't particularly want to.

"You should," you acknowledge. "Or you can call your mom and ask if you can sleep over."

"You just want me in your bed."

"In my defense, you look  _really hot_  when you're in my bed."

He crinkles his nose. "Gross, dude."

"Don't worry, baby," you say teasingly. "I love you for more than your body."

" _Dude_ ," he says, half-laughing, and he keeps his mouth open for a moment longer, like he has something to say but isn't sure how to say it.

"Yes, sugarplum?" you prompt, exaggeratedly sweet.

He pokes you in the stomach as he sits up. "Maybe I  _shouldn't_  stay over if you're just going to get all hot and bothered."

You might have thought he was serious if you didn't catch the edge of his smile. "Nooo," you whine, reaching toward him to pull him against your chest. "I promise I'll behave. Don't go."

He relaxes into the embrace, tilting his head so that it's pressed against yours. "This doesn't seem like 'behaving' to me," he observes.

"I could have touched somewhere totally R-rated," you reason. "I'm keeping this PG-13, so I'd say that I'm behaving very well."

"I am going to pretend you didn't just say that," he says after a pause. "So I guess I'll call my mom. When you actually ask your parents if it's cool, I mean," he adds in the tone he gets when he was planning that exact thing all along.

You heave a sigh. "Yeah, okay." Although pulling away from him is for a good cause, you kind of really don't want to. With an immense exertion of will, you retract your arms so that he can scoot away, and you mutter, "I'll be back in a minute," as you leave the room.

When you return triumphantly, he announces, "That was a minute, seven seconds." He hasn't moved except to prop his legs up on the coffee table.

"Were you timing me?" you ask a bit disbelievingly, dropping down beside him. He waves his phone at you in reply, which does in fact have a timer on the screen. "Yeah, okay, whatever. The 'rents said you're good to go."

He calls his mother, putting an arm around you when you lean against him. "Hey, Mom, would it be okay if I spent the night here? … Yeah, they're fine with it… Thanks, Mom, love you." He pulls the phone away from his ear and disconnects, and makes as if to put it away before he stops himself. "I feel like I should take a pic of us."

"Do it."

The photo is kind of ridiculous, since you won't let him have his arm back and the two of you are making silly faces at the camera. When he uploads it to Instagram, the caption is, "#colton is back @daltonim5."

  

  

This is what never happens:

Cole straddles you, his hands on either side of your head, and he grins when he says, all mock flirtation, "Do you have a map? 'Cause I got lost in your eyes."

You make a strangled sound, unsure if you want to groan or laugh, and make up for it by sliding a hand to the nape of his neck. Two can play at this game. "You're outta luck, dude," you tell him, feigning disappointment. "Sold the last one ages ago."

"When's the next shipment?" he asks, undeterred.

"Never."

That makes him narrow his eyes at you. "Well, okay, then. I'll just stay lost in your eyes forever. Never gonna get out of them. Never gonna give them up. Never gonna let them down—"

"Oh my  _god_ , Cole," you interrupt, half-horrified and half-amused, "are you gonna kiss me or Rickroll me?"

" _Well_ …" he begins, but chuckles and murmurs, "Kidding, kidding," when you squint at him. He dips his head to press his lips against yours, shifting so that his position is more comfortable, and you tilt your head a bit further to the side because you really do not want his nose squishing half of yours.

It’s more than nice enough to make you kind of lose yourself in the sensations. His warmth soaks through the thin material of your shirt, and he kisses you with a firm sort of gentleness, like this is the best possible use of his time and he wants you to know that. It might be a little swoon-worthy.

God, you really  _are_  a bit in love with this boy—but, to be fair, it's hard not to be.


End file.
